


The Dead Walk Tonight

by thegraytigress



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Halloween, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a dark night in Minas Tirith, Legolas and Éomer learn that it is best not to take candy from strangers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dead Walk Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for violence, horror)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Apparently I wrote this Halloween thing? :-P And apparently I wrote some things in first person. I can't remember the last time I wrote anything in first person. Well, thanks for reading! Oh, and warnings for major character death(s). It's Halloween, after all.

“The dead walk tonight.”

I raise my head to stare at the old woman, the money for which I previously sought all but forgotten on my hands. She watches me with pale blue eyes, the sort that glow like cerulean ice upon dried grass and frozen rock. The intensity of her stare disturbs me. It is as though she sees through me, past me, into me. Into the darkest parts of my being to observe parts of myself that I rarely let into the light. “What?” I stammer.

“The dead walk tonight,” she repeats. Then she smiles. Most of her teeth are rotted, gone, leaving gaping, grotesque holes between dry and weathered lips. “Or so they say.”

She looks away, accepting the money I absently offer her, dipping her head to count the golden coins that rest now in her wrinkled palm. I am not so willing to brush aside her words. I feel unnerved, violated somehow, though the rational part of my mind asserts that she was only speaking to be friendly and charitable. After all, we had paid her a handsome sum for the meal she had prepared for us. The stew had been hearty, sweetened by spices I could not begin to name. My culinary skills are poor at best, and I have grown quite accustomed to the flavoring the cooks in Rohan prefer. Still, I greatly enjoyed the meal. It had been a welcome conclusion to a trying day. The savory sweetness had pleasantly complimented the bitter ale this particular establishment offered its patrons.

And the inn itself was nothing spectacular. A clean, modest place, it resided in the sixth gate of Minas Tirith, nestled on the corner of a road besides a few other comely shops. Well kept and warm, it offered a welcoming environment, drawing the cold and weary for a scrape of a meal and a few relaxing drinks. The owners (which I believed to be this elderly lady and her son) had been nothing but cordial and prompt, perhaps a tad eager to please, but amiable nonetheless. I have only seen the lad once. He is grown man, though youth still clings to a sallow face. He seemed shy, apprehensive almost, and I think it queer for the owner of a communal establishment to so avoid its guests. The lady had done naught aside from ensure our meal was to our liking thus far, speaking of little else. Her words now seem rather random and unusual. Something coils in my belly, and I narrow my eyes. “Who says such a thing?”

She drops the coins quickly into a chest, and I can hear the heavy clink of metal as they strike their companions. She seems surprised at my question. “Well, nobody in particular, my good Lord. It is just a myth, a tale used to frighten children into good behavior. This is a famous night.”

I shake my head, feeling a bit of an embarrassed blush come to my face. “You will have to excuse me, good lady, for I rarely have occasion to frequent this city. I am not well-versed in its lore.”

She smiles pleasantly as though she too is ashamed at this frivolous conversation. “It is a silly thing, my Lord. I know not where the tale originated, but it has persisted for many years.” She purses her lips, bony fingers tipped by ragged nails coming to stroke her chin thoughtfully. Those pale eyes glaze, and she glances about her empty dining area as though lost. “Legend has it that on this night, many hundreds of years ago, a great sickness spread across this city. It was a terrible affliction, this misery, terrible and torturous. None of the healers could do a thing, you see. All those afflicted burned with fever till their skin blistered and boiled. To escape the fire, it is said hundreds and hundreds fled their homes this eve and staggered into the cool night air. And it is there that they died.” My stomach clenches. Her eyes glint. “A strange thing, truly! Never explained, and hardly substantiated. It is said, though, that on this night every year, one can walk the streets of this city and never be alone. The dead walk this night. You can hear them, if you listen.”

I must have looked mortified, for then she laughed, satisfied with herself. “You pale so, my Lord! ‘Tis naught but a tale, truly it is! Here.” Her knotted, gnarled hands dip in a bowl behind the counter. “Have a candy, and one for your friend as well.”

As she hands the sweets to me, I glance behind her. Her son watches from the kitchen. Shadows swath him, and all I can see of him are his white, shining eyes. They do not blink. A dull ache settles in my belly at his intense stare. My heart beats faster, and a cold wave leaves my gooseflesh prickled beneath my tunic and cloak. I am acting such a fool! I shake my head slightly, trying to dispose of these irrational and silly forebodings.

“There you are, my good Lord,” the woman says sweetly, smiling genuinely. “Safe journey to you.”

I banish the last of my fallacy and return her grin with one of my own. I bow. “Thank you, my Lady.”

I am outside a moment later. The night is crisp and cold, and my breath forms a pale phantasm before my lips as I breathe deeply. The apparition lasts but a moment before fading, disappearing as suddenly as it came. A moment later, though, another appears as I exhale. The dead walk. Such flippancy! I chuckle. It has been many years since I have heard a good, spooky tale. I have forgotten the fun they often bring with their scare.

“You seem amused.” I nearly jump at the voice, shock and sudden fear coursing over me in a hot wave. I swallow my breath and turn to find Legolas behind me. The Elf slides from the concealing shadows on the side of the building. He smiles, evidently pleased that he has startled me. Were he another, I would perhaps throttle him for his actions. But Legolas was simply too kind and endearing to feel anything aside from admiration and love for him. Gimli was right to call the Elf infuriating at times, but I have seen Legolas in battle. I have seen him when the odds were insurmountable, when the bleak minutes stretched to hopeless hours and the world seemed to collapse all about us. He never falters. He is strong and steadfast, more than most I know. He is one of the friends I have made through the horrid war that has made the experience worth the suffering.

I shake my head as he steps beside me. He moves languidly, with a grace and elegance I can only covet. “That was a strange woman, do you not agree?”

He ponders this a moment. His blue eyes scan the road absently ahead of us, but though his gaze seems distant, I know he is acutely aware of every facet of our surroundings. Then he shrugs noncommittally and pulls the hood of his cloak about his face, hiding his long, pale hair. “I suppose. But I find most of this city queer. I have never seen so many independent drinking establishments. There is one for every man in Minas Tirith, no doubt.” I laugh. “Men are strange folk.”

I chuckle. “And you are hardly one to talk, my friend,” I jest good-naturedly. I admit to knowing little of the Eldar. Legolas was one of the first I have ever had the occasion to meet. Aragorn told me once that he is unusually _open_ for his kind. _“A product of youth and love for this world,”_ the ranger had explained. I believe him. The few other Elves I have encountered were far more aloof, and bore an aura of import that Legolas rarely exudes. “Rarely have I heard talk of your kingdom, but your kind are rumored to be quite the merry sort. Never a shortage of fine vintages in Mirkwood, or so Gimli has proclaimed.”

Legolas smirks. “Perhaps, but we do not convert our merry-making into a fierce commercial competition.” I laugh loudly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Further, this night appears to bear some special meaning to the denizens of this city. I witnessed children pulling their parents about frantically in search of the ‘dead’.”

“Perhaps we shall see some. Oh!” I say suddenly, feeling the candies clenched in my hand and remembering their offering. “Here, a treat for you on this harrowing eve.” I smile slyly and deposit one of the sweets into his hand.

Legolas’ brows knit in confusion a moment as he examined the gift. Nimble fingers lift it before piercing blue eyes, and the glowing orbs narrowed slightly. “Quaint,” he comments. I look to him questioningly, and he nods slightly. “Did you not notice its wrapping?”

In fact, I had not. I look down at the small cube resting in my open palm. It appears to be covered in a bit of paper. The brown material has a skull drawn into the front of it with dark ink. I smile. Quaint, indeed. I unwrap the treat. It is dark and soft. Without another thought I pop it into my mouth. A sweet, sugary taste warms me, and I chew appreciatively. I glance to Legolas and find that he has eaten his as well. “She was a nice woman,” I comment, “if not a bit strange.”

That seems to end our conversation for a bit, and we walk in a comfortable silence. The streets are eerily silent, but again I find my mind leaping to the most unreal of conclusions. It is quite cold tonight, and the air is icy and taut as it enters my body. It caresses to life my hair, a chilly breeze leaving me sniffling slightly as we traverse the black streets. The sky is strikingly clear, the stars bright and twinkling madly in the blanket of sable. The moon is great and mournful, its pale beams washing the winding road in a surreal pallor. There is little sound, and I feel inexplicably that we are wandering through an abyss. I hear the steady falling of our feet. A sign creaking as the wind pushed it back and forth upon rusty hinges. My heart beating.

I am tired, and my belly is full. A sense of satisfying completion numbs my mind, leaving my senses lethargic and my limbs heavy. It has been a long day. My encounter with Legolas this evening was little more than a moment of good happenstance, as the Elf had been returning to the White City at the same time I had been leaving. My duties in Rohan required my attention, but Legolas had bid me to pause at the grand Gateway to the city. As most friendly conversations do, it carried us away from our tasks. It had been many months since I had last met the prince, and he seemed as interested in hearing of my recent ventures as I was of his. We had decided to seek some sustenance, as he was wearied (though he would not directly admit it) from his ride and I had not had the opportunity to eat earlier in the day. Choosing a restaurant had been a completely random action, guided by no experience or innate sense of a fine locale. Fate brought us together, and we had let it choose our destiny.

I have no complaints. I shall enjoy sleep tonight. Spending one night further in the hospitality of Minas Tirith would be no serious burden. This evening was worth the day I might lose in tending to my duties. It is no small pleasure for a man to enjoy a friend’s company. In such a condition, bolstered by good food, drink, and cheer, there is no reason to maintain a façade of regality. Legolas and I discussed matters of business, of course, but as peers and with a sort of removed grace that made responsibilities seem meager and irrelevant. He is a prince and I am a king, but this night we were simply friends separated from each other for too long. I had forgotten how pleasant it is to share company with an Elf. They bring such light and life to all they encounter. Legolas and I are by no means close, but I do not believe I would wish something more of our relationship. As well as shunning the responsibilities of state, we can dispense with many of the binding duties close companions often share with each other. He remains distant from me and I from him, a pleasant acquaintance with whom I can spend a nice evening once in a while. Often detachment is as important as closeness.

But my mind is wandering. I shake my head to concentrate, but my thoughts are unwilling to abandon a muddled concoction of memory and scattered ponderings. I wonder at this idly, but my buzzing head refuses to oblige the call of consideration. I feel sick and jumbled, as though thick, wet, and heavy wool has been draped upon my consciousness. My stomach twists inside me, and nausea burns the back of my throat. The sudden coming of this ailment vaguely strikes me as unusual. Have I eaten something rotten? That seems unlikely, as not enough time has passed for such a thing to exert its effect. Rather, I tasted nothing foul or sour in my meal. However, the dizzying spell persists, and I feel the world spin and circle about my beleaguered head. I stumble. Will I fall? I straighten and draw a deep breath, forcing the fading world to come into sharp focus.

And when I do, I realize something. We have walked for many minutes and not a single person have we passed upon these streets. Minas Tirith is a bustling city! It is many times the size of Edoras, and I have rarely known the paths of my home to appear so utterly deserted. Dark shadows spread over out path, deep and foreboding. This is not right. The air pushes through me, past me, into me. It is cold and vicious. Violent.

In this moment, I believe another fact, as well. I can hear nothing besides our feet striking the stones of the road. Steady. Loud. Heavy. The old woman’s words return to me, piercing through the haze inside my aching head to rattle against the confines of my skull. _“The dead walk this night. You can hear them, if you listen.”_

Stupidly I stop and do just that. I strain my ears, holding my breath and concentrating intensely for any sound. There is none, of course, saving for the thundering of my heart. What did I expect? Ghouls, ghosts, and demons? The dead, walking these very streets? Folly! I smile wanly. I surely drank more than I should have and the alcohol has made me slightly inebriated. There is no such thing. This is a children’s story, after all. A tale used to delight the youth with fright and grotesqueries. The old woman said as much.

However, Legolas has also stopped. He stands beside me, still, stiff, his eyes searching and his slender form tense with apprehension. My vision blurs slightly, and I shiver. Are his senses playing fiendish little tricks upon him? Has he imbibed alcohol beyond his limits as well?

Then I remember. He had not had a single glass.

My throat is dry, and I can barely find my voice. “Legolas?”

The Elf turns then. His face is very pale, and his eyes are bright with fear. Yet he has no time to speak. Something rams me from behind, and I fall. The world blurs in an array of black and deep blue as I tumble. I scream for my body to move, to stop my fall, but my limbs do not heed my commands! I stumble and hit the freezing, unforgiving ground hard. My chest slams unprotected into the stones, my arms not moving fast enough to relieve the impact. My chin follows. My teeth jab down into my tongue when my head strikes, and the warm, bitter taste of blood assails my senses.

I cannot focus. Time loses meaning as I lay there, fighting for breath, my body hurting terribly and my mind slipping away. Vaguely I feel myself being dragged. I do not struggle. Somebody calls my name, but the voice is distant. Dark blocks and blobs move in front of me, and I fight to lean up. It seems I have been pulled into an alley. It is so very black in here, but the moon and stars let me see. I want to see.

There is a whirl of blond and blue. Legolas. I see a sharp glint whizzing through the air, and this streak of lightning is attached to a fuzzy form. The Elf steps back, but his movements are hindered, slow, jaunty. I think, and my thoughts become detached from emotion. Those candies. Those sweet candies… they were poison.

We have wandered blindly into a killer’s trap.

I want to cry, to scream, but I have no voice. I have no hope. I have no strength. Panic curls tightly in my belly, and I flail. It takes all my energy to fling forth an unreasonably heavy arm, and my fingers curl and dig into the stone. I try to pull myself forward. Legolas cannot face this alone!

“There, there, my good Lord.” That voice. It is she. She kneels, her movements stiffened by age but strengthened by the taunt of blood and violence. In her tone now is the same sweetness, but now it is revealed for what it always was: lust. I hear it, and it slithers into me, bringing to life a fire of terror and rage. Yet even this raging blaze is not enough to break the icy hold upon my body her dark magic has wrought. “It will be over soon.”

I open my mouth to scream, but I cannot. I cannot! Tears bleed from my eyes, and my heart booms in my ears. I look to her with imploring eyes. Please! Do not do this to us! I hear a cry. Legolas stumbles backward, his hood failing back, his hand pressed across his face. Something dark and thick appears between his clenched fingers. “Is that what you want?” she asks. “To see this? My good Lord, I doubt it is something you want to see.” She laughs lightly, pleasantly. “But I aim to please.”

With a great deal of effort, she lifts my leaden body. This is my opportunity. Fight! Strike her! She is but an old hag. But I can do nothing but watch wide-eyed and breathe as she grunts and groans with exertion. Her claws wrap about my arms and she pulls my torso from the ground. Her freezing fingers latch onto my jaw and steady my head. “Watch,” she whispers gleefully in my ear. I wince. “It is so rare that one fights!”

The horror before me nearly stops my erratic heart. Legolas ducks to avoid a swipe of that bloody knife. I can tell he is weakening. Perhaps this poison affected him to a lesser degree… But I cannot hold to this thought, and it slips into the miasma of horror and panic within me. The terrible fight lasts for what seems to be forever. Eventually Legolas grows too sluggish, and a well-aimed kick from his assailant sends him sprawling into the darkened alley.

He hits the ground before me, shaking. His face is covered in blood. I look into his eyes. He is frightened, and so am I. I am so, so sorry.

Then the demon grabs his hair and yanks him upward. He desperately tries to cry out, but he cannot. The son clamps a hand over the Elf’s mouth. They stand for what seems to be a horrific eternity, Legolas’ body bent with the last of his strength and the intensity of his panic. The shadows swath the son again, but those white eyes shine maliciously. Sadistically, maniacally. I hate him. Blackness encroaches upon my vision. I cry for Legolas. I cry for myself. But I can do nothing as the man drives the knife into Legolas’ neck.

“There, there. It will all be over soon.”

I have no doubt. The red blade is pulled free and then descends.

I lay there, then, beside my friend. His eyes are open, but they are empty. The air is cold and the night is clear. There are but a few breaths left now. I want to talk to him, but he is already gone.

Dead. We have walked tonight.

**THE END**


End file.
